Sylvia's Journal

I woke up this morning, back at our homestead, feeling a slight twinge of nostalgia and a vague sense of loss. The loss was about the sadness I imagined as F was saying goodbye to her surrogate parents at NMH, but also the sadness of not being able to return to Afghanistan this summer to see her real mom and siblings. Given her high and scarfless profile at public events and in public places she was advised to remain in the US for the summer before settling into Bates for the next 4 years.

Her American experience has opened her eyes to perspectives that had never been in view as she grew up in Afghanistan. She wrote a paper why gay marriage is OK, roomed with a Jewish girl and later with a Russian girl whose grandfather had fought against her grandfather in Afghanistan. She can now separate the people from the issues and make independent judgments. She honed her managerial skills at the rec center of NMH and read the whole bible as part of a class for Catholics only, to which she asked to be admitted. She has developed a theory about geography, destiny and the great religions that is a refreshing view on a very divisive topic in her homeland. A return will be hard because she will be a lone voice. It is good to know that SOLA, and so many others, are working hard at creating a critical mass of such independent thinkers. It is a life’s work for many extraordinary people we have come to know, inside and outside Afghanistan.

Watching the class of 2013 cheering and throwing their hats in the air, the proud smiles of parents and friends also made me nostalgic. I remember my own graduation. It was 1970, a time full of possibilities and open roads. Looking back I can say that, indeed, roads opened and I have travelled a long way, both literally and figuratively, exceeding my wildest expectations. It’s just that now I can’t walk these roads as well as I used to – the crippling ankle pain is beginning to close off those roads that aren’t paved.

It is Memorial Day weekend. It is a long week with filial duties, among others. The coral-colored geraniums were ready, waiting to be planted on the ancestral graves. Axel trudged through the thick mud – it has been raining the entire week – at the town compost dump to fill two large boxes with topsoil and get rid of a car load full of garden debris.

Armed with a small amount of vodka and two glasses, a spade and the geraniums, we headed for the cemetery where we prettied up the graves of the elder Magnusons and three of their sons, Axel’s dad and his two uncles. We thanked them for having been there, and the great-great and great-grandparents to have made Faro possible, by pouring a small amount of vodka over their graves. Although grampie and granny Magnuson were teetotalers, and would certainly not have approved this ritual, the vodka was an important ingredient of party libations enjoyed by the next generations. Incidentally, I learned, vodka also prolongs the life of cut flowers.

Next stop was a farm at Apple Street in Essex which is the farm part of a fancy farm-to-table restaurant in Boston called l’Espalier. We bought our tomatoes seedlings which are traditionally planted on Memorial Day, the start of our New England summer, as well as a few other things like oriental eggplant, peppers and savory. Some of the restaurant hands had cooked a spectacular lunch which we ate, shivering from the rainy cold, in a farm that had belonged to the Perkins family since 1635. We have, somewhere in our possession, a marriage contract dated around that time, written on sheepskin, of one member of the Perkins family and the price to be paid for the dowry (land and sheep).

With all duties in Manchester done we headed out to western Massachusetts to spend the night at Sita’s from where we staged our next outing, F’s graduation at the Northfield Mount Hermon School. We met up with other members of the SOLA family, including Shabana who gave the commencement address. I had not seen Shabana since I left Kabul, although I have followed her rise to celebrity status on TEDex and then TED talks, in interviews and from SOLA emails. It was a joyful reunion with all of us circling around these two amazing Afghan girls.

It has been a week full of music. On Wednesday we joined a group of friends at the Chianti jazz café in Beverly. As the players were setting up we feasted on chianti (of course) and olives. I recognized the percussionist when he pulled out his tablas. He was the same who played with the Afghan orchestra earlier this year at the New England Conservatory. The band, Natraj, is a fusion jazz group, fusing Indian, American and African music into the most wonderful pieces. Our friends have become groupies and we can now see why.

On Friday we went to see and listen to Toots and the Maytals, affectionately called Toots and the Maytags by our friend Edith. In the pouring rain we headed out to Salisbury, a place that seems further away from my mind than Cairo or Karachi. The concert was in a building that was anything but interesting on the outside, especially in the rain. To my surprise it housed some spectacular places inside. If you had the good luck to sit near the window you could see the waves lapping at the edge of the building right below you. An adjoining restaurant was just as nice – a congenial crowd, and a spacious and comfortable layout.

I had put on my ortho boot to provide some support to my ankle. It also made it possible for me to head onto the dance floor for those reggae songs that one cannot possible listen to in stillness. Up front a mix of generations moved rhythmically with the beat while Toots was masterfully working the crowd: we answered his calls, stamped and cheered and sang along with his most famous songs. It was a ‘The harder they come’ night with a thousand and more memories, making the atmosphere relaxed and joyful with only a few boozing a little too much, but not getting in anyone’s way except their own.

We finally got to see the ankle surgeon, or the one who used to be an ankle surgeon. It was an appointment that required a waiting time of 3 months. It was the 3rd opinion visit and we now need a fourth opinion. Getting 4 opinions thus takes about one year.

I had some misplaced fantasy that this visit would resolve things. Of course it didn’t. It helped the orthopedic practice pay for their two X-ray machines and the doctor for something of import to him says the cynic in me. Despite the fact that I came armed with recent arthroscopy pictures, a recent post-op X-ray and an MRI less than 6 months old, the physician’s assistant ordered another X-ray, from a different angle, because the doctor would surely want it.

I sensed the memories of a previous dialogue with his boss that went something like this: “why didn’t you order [this or that specific] X-ray? How can I do my job if you don’t provide me with all the diagnostic tools I need? You are wasting my very precious time!!!” On the other hand, this may simply be a practice policy – every physician has a target number of MRIs and X-Rays a months to pay for the darn things.

Of course I hadn’t come for a diagnosis – I already knew it – but for an opinion about ankle replacement. At least I got that. The doctor no longer does this because there is only one category of people that does usually well with this sort of surgery (light framed older females). I fit the bill only partially, not quite being of a ‘light frame.’ But the alternative, fusion, also isn’t quite right for me, as two doctors have now testified. Fusion is for ankles that are stiff and painful. After the fusion they will still be stiff but no longer painful. It would be a setback for me. But then again, now I am flexible and painful and the flexibility doesn’t serve me well at all.

I do have a better understanding of what either intervention consists of and the recovery time. Neither is appealing, including full casts, crutches and a long time to recover from, with outcomes that are not entirely predictable.

And so the decision is once more postponed until I get that fourth opinion from an ankle doctor in Boston whose 13 reviews on a random website range from ‘a one star BUTCHER (in caps) to a gushing five star ‘I have my life back again because I can walk!’ I will hobble along for another 3 or 4 months until I secure his attention.

The next day our CFO died. I am probably as far removed from the daily life of a CFO as one can get so I didn’t know her that well. But she was the one who agreed to pay for Axel to accompany me on an exploratory trip to Afghanistan, to see if he could imagine living there for two years, out of MSH’s fund balance. It was something that most everyone else told me was out of the question. Her response was, ‘of course’ we will pay for that. I have always loved her for that matter of fact response, a person who was known and credible for her expert stewardship of MSH’s finances. She left us too early, like our former chief who we said goodbye to the day before.

But it is spring and for the rest of us life goes on. Our garden is now full of shades of purples: creeping phlox, lilacs, wisteria and iris. The apple tree has had an extreme haircut which hasn’t kept the little leaf eaters away. I don’t mind not having apples but I am afraid for the beach plum and blueberry bushes nearby which have succumbed in the past to these little critters. It is amazing how much they can eat of the tiny green leaves in a day. Axel promised he will spray today.

But then I worry about the spraying and what it will do to the good micro-organisms around us. An article in Sunday’s New York Time Magazine and a story on NPR last night radio reminded me that there are billions of these creatures (bacteria and fungi) in and on our bodies. I learned that our feet host some 80 different kinds of fungi, and I presume these are healthy feet, and that most of them are innocuous or doing good work, only a few turning into athlete’s foot or ringworm. But when we kill the latter we kill the others as well. Same for antibiotics: we get better and we get worse at the same time.

I am reading more about systems dynamics, well known for decades in the science community, but even if acknowledged by us ordinary souls, not significantly affecting our daily work of designing, planning and evaluating interventions to improve the world. A superb piece of journalism on NPR last night about the marihuana trade going east from California reminded me of the symbiotic relationships between good and bad we create and maintain at great cost and at great benefit to everyone. As long as the forces are in equilibrium and not one side wins we appear to benefit. It is when the force on one side is stronger than the other that we create winners and losers. And that changes everything that follows.

We drove to Harvard yesterday to celebrate the life of the woman who hired me at MSH more than 26 years ago and who was my colleague for nearly 2 decades.

In order to get to the Harvard Memorial Church we had to work our way past boxes and cars being loaded in the Yard as it was moving out day. I assume that some of the students were elated to get back to their parents, having their own rooms again and the end of classes and papers, and some were, no doubt less than elated to have to follow mom and dad’s rules again.

Only the overseas parents were relaxed as there were no boxes to stuff into cars, just pictures to take; mementos of their clever darling or smart brother in front of this or that Hall, wearing the sweatshirts imprinted with the Harvard logo bought earlier at the Harvard Coop. I could imagine the cousins in a remote village in China looking intently at the picture, marveling at their smart relative, inspired to follow his or her path.

At the church we met the family and colleagues from MSH, some long since retired, a reunion of sorts. All had come to pay their respects, forget about difference and honor all that was good in our former colleague’s life. The church was decorated with purple lilacs, her favorite flower and color. As it turned out it was nearly 30 years to the day that she and her husband married at this same church.

About a decade ago our paths diverged and left a rather deep divide between her and MSH. In the meantime our kids grew up and became adults, both Fulbright Scholars. Both of us juggled motherhood and a job, her kids slightly younger than ours. They had organized with their dad a beautiful and upbeat service that masked successfully the difficulties of these last 10 years.

We wrestled our way from Cambridge through crowded streets to the even more crowded center of Boston for a reception in the fancy Somerset Club on Beacon Street, also the site of the wedding 30 years earlier. We learned more about her past from family, classmates and friends while watching a slide show that showed many happy times.

We returned home to find our daughters and Jim and Faro sitting on our lawn on that beautiful spring day, surrounded by spring flowers, the lilacs in bloom and birds everywhere. It was a surprise visit triggered by Sita’s departure last night to Rome as the airport drop off didn’t synchronize well with Faro’s bedtime. Lucky us, we got to babysit, having a little family time before bedtime, continued in the morning. Tessa had come, by coincidence, to pick up some furniture, something we generally encourage and left before dinner, speeding home to the dogs in Dorchester.

Last night we had three different meals, a Spanish chick pea stew for me, a chunk of meat for Axel, and Jim brought home some spicy South Indian food. We watched the first episode of the first season of The Midwife, quite a counterpoint to Madmen, which has been the focus of our movie watching for the last few months, from seasn one to season five.

The memorial service stayed with me all through the night. Thoughts about living and dying transformed themselves into a graphic that made so much sense during dreamtime and even when I woke up but is now rather mysterious. I vaguely remember a triangle, looking like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs pyramid; touching something deep and important about needs.

Sita texted she arrived safely in Rome this morning and Jim and Faro left to see the other grandparents before heading out west again. They will be back on Thursday when Sita returns.

This morning, as I drove down an empty stretch of 128 in the early morning sunlight I pondered how peace(fullness) and health are two things that we take for granted when we have so much of it. And then, when they are gone, we wake up to their shocking importance.

I tried to imagine that same stretch of 128 pockmarked from exploded shells, with blast walls along the sides, obscuring the blossoming trees, and covered with razor wire; men with guns at road blocks ahead.

It is not too hard to create this vista after having lived in the Middle East and Afghanistan. I imagined myself driving in this scene with a heavy heart, thinking about all the good times that I took for granted and leaving me full of regrets. Regrets of not enjoying beauty, health and peace more, being distracted by unimportant things, wishes and wants that have nothing to do with beauty, health and peace.

This is of course a reality for people all over the world, for older people who have known times before things started to fall apart, in Syria, in Afghanistan, in Iraq and Iran.

I drove the rest of my commute to Cambridge trying to fill my heart and lungs with all these things I take for granted.

We are eating asparagus every other evening. They are now popping up like crazy in our garden. It is hard to keep up. We prepare them the Flemish way, always: a hardboiled egg, potatoes, ham, all drizzled with butter, and then a bottomless dish of asparagus. We are managing the asparagus beetles with a non-toxic calcium-like powder they prefer to eat over the asparagus, which subsequently kills them. It seems to work as the spears have straightened up and we can keep picking and eating.

Last night was candidates’ night at the Legion in Manchester for next week’s town government elections. We came a little too late to mingle informally with the candidates, three for two empy selectmen slots. The meeting started with all of us turning to the flag and pledging our allegiance. I still find that awkward, especially putting my right hand on my heart, but I did, and then watched Axel’s mouth for the words. I can nearly do this on my own now.

The process of getting to know the candidates was highly choreographed, with three citizens (a student, a soccer mom and a retired person) asking questions to the three candidates for a specific number of minutes after which the iPhone chimed. After that we, unscripted people, got to ask questions. I asked how they bring people together over contentious topics, like budgets, schools and dogs on the beach. One candidate said it wasn’t rocket science, but I think it is more complex than rocket science, handling strong and brittle egos when taxes and real estate values are at stake.

The candidates were showing their best sides and hardly differentiated themselves from each other. Other criteria will have to be considered such as do I vote a woman because she is a woman, a smart woman at that? Do I go for the newcomers (both of them men)? Do I go for commitment? And what counts as commitment? And what about this ‘rocket science’ statement?
Having done my civic duty I tumbled into bed about the same time that 2nd graders turn in. I have to in order to get my 8 hours of sleep.

We met Alison and Mark at the Me and Thee coffeehouse in Marblehead to see Zoe and Mark play. It was my third Zoe (Lewis) concert and so I was familiar with many of the stories and songs that she intertwines into an extraordinary performance, with Mark adding a beautiful touch of clarinet to fill out the mood. Zoe and Mark’s concerts make me happy, which was happiness added to my sense of liberation.

On Sunday we had conspired with Tessa and Steve to surprise Sita on her first mother’s day. Sita thought I was in Egypt and Jim kept the secret. We showed up on that beautiful Sunday, after having driven through a major downpour, with a complete brunch and flowers and plants. We found Sita planting her medicinal garden to which we added a few more plants. It was a total surprise indeed.

We enjoyed our lunch sitting in the garden, much like I imagine French Sunday afternoon family lunches, joyful and noisy. Faro joined us after lunch, refreshed from a nap, showing off his red hair that is coming in fast.

We planted potatoes in the front and back garden, settled two rhododendrons and laid down on the grass with Faro and the dogs crawling all over us leaving Sita the space and time to garden without having to worry about anything. That’s the best mother’s day present.

And then the sense of liberation faded away as my empty schedule started filling up again.